Chapter 10
Nan
I didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning, worrying about Dani. How was she? Where was she?
In the morning, the skies were, if not exactly blue, a lighter shade of gray than usual, so I quickly did my chores, grabbed two leashes from the hook by the back door, and jingled my keys. Blixen, who knew the signal, jumped from her bed and came running, excited to go for a ride. Nelson followed, his legs moving like pistons as he tried to keep pace, excited because his new friend was excited.
Though the famous rose gardens were dormant at that time of year, the bushes cut back and the branches bare, Washington Park was still a nice place for a walk. The grass was green and spongy beneath my feet, the air perfumed by the rich loam of the flowerbeds and a whiff of pine from nearby stands of evergreens. We walked for over an hour, until I was sure both pups got a good workout, then drove over to Hillside Animal Hospital for Nelson’s checkup.
Hillside is on the other side of the river from my place, but I’d gone there for years. Dr. Kelly is a great vet. He’s originally from Scotland but doesn’t have much of an accent anymore, not unless he decides to put it on, as he often does when he’s joking. It’s a plus when your vet is smart and has a sense of humor. And nice. He gives me discounts on medication and services for all of my foster dogs.
Dr. Kelly clicked the light on his otoscope and peered into Nelson’s ears. “Good boy. Thanks for holding still. Uh-oh. That left ear is a little infected.” He looked up at me. “I’ll give you a prescription for that and we’ll give him a rabies booster today. The teeth need cleaning too. Other than that, he looks good. You find a home for him yet?”
“Not yet. You’re not in the market for a new best friend, are you, Malcolm?”
“Tempting. As always.” He patted Nelson’s back. “If I adopted every wee doggie you brought to my office, I’d need to buy stock in a kibble company. But let’s take a snapshot of Mr. Nelson and pin it to the bulletin board. Somebody is sure to fall in love with him before long. You’re such a handsome lad, aren’t you, Nelson?”
Nelson panted in agreement.
“Thanks, Malcolm. Now, about his teeth—how much will it cost for the cleaning? The rescue is running a little low on funds just now—”
“Don’t worry about the bill right now, Nan. We’ll work something out.”
I repeated my thanks and scooped Nelson off of the examining table. Blixen walked over to Malcolm and nosed his hand.
“I’m sorry, Blix,” he said, reaching down to give her a pat. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. Have you been taking good care of your visitor?”
“Very,” I said. “She’s always so protective of the new ones.”
Malcolm got down on his haunches and rubbed Blixen’s head with both hands. Nelson put a paw on Malcolm’s leg, demanding his share of the attention.
“All right. A hand for each.” Malcolm grinned and started petting both dogs. “So how’re you, Nan? How’s the family?”
“Fine, everybody’s fine. I wish they lived closer, of course. But what can you do? They’ve got to go where the work is.”
“How’s Dani doing? Have you heard from her recently?”
“Oh . . . yes. She called the other day. Still backpacking around the country, trying to find herself. You know how kids are.”
“Well, if you’re going to travel, do it while you’re young. You’ve got your whole life to work, right? Did she ever apply to vet school?”
“She’s thinking about it.” I shrugged. “But, you know. Hard to get in.”
“If she ever wants a recommendation, I’d be happy to help. She was one of the best assistants I ever had. She’d make a great vet.”
“Malcolm,” I said, smiling in spite of myself, “she cleaned kennels and wrangled cats for you for one summer when she was sixteen.”
He disentangled himself from the dogs and got to his feet.
“But she had a feel for it, very gentle she was. And a hard worker. I’d write her a recommendation in a heartbeat.” He frowned a little, as if he’d just remembered something. “Say, you have my home phone number, don’t you?”
“No, I just call the hospital if I need anything.”
“Well, if you ever need to find me at home . . .” He wrote the number on a prescription pad and handed it to me. “Here. Just in case.”
I slipped the paper into my pocket, wondering what this was all about. Malcolm had been my vet for fifteen years and I’d never once had to call him at home—if I needed him, the answering service found him.
“Next time you talk to Dani, tell her what I said about vet school.”
“I will,” I said, clipping on Nelson’s leash. “Next time.”
* * *
ing the hospital, I drove to Café Allegro to see Monica, leaving Blixen and Nelson, worn-out from their busy morning, to sleep in the car.
I’d only planned to pop in, say hello, and see if she had a couple of minutes to talk about ways to raise money for the dog rescue, but Monica insisted on feeding me. It wasn’t quite ten thirty, but I was hungry after my walk, so I let her. She fixed me a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and set a place for me at the counter so I could watch while she got ready for the lunch crowd.
I couldn’t believe how quickly she worked, lifting enormous pots filled with water onto the stove, her knife flashing as she chopped a pile of peppers, a small mountain of onions, then gutted and prepped a whole bucket of fresh and very slimy-looking squid. Disgusting but impressive.
But the most impressive thing was the way Monica and her staff maneuvered around the kitchen and one another—salting sauces, stirring fillings, rolling dough, whisking dressing, tossing salads. It was almost balletic the way each person’s movements were perfectly timed to the others, moving expertly through the dance with barely a word of instruction or inquiry. This was a very good thing because Monica had a lot on her mind and needed to talk.
“I’m exhausted. Didn’t sleep all night,” she said as she seeded and diced a dozen Roma tomatoes with lightning speed. “Zoe and I had a huge fight. I wouldn’t let her wear fishnet stockings to school. Apparently, this means I’m out to ruin her life. She called me some terrible names. So I turned around and called her some that were even worse.”
Monica swept her knife over the cutting board, scooped up the pile of diced tomato, and dumped it into a bowl, shaking her head.
“Every time she throws out the bait, I snap it up. Why do I do that? Why?”
“Because you care. You’re worried about her.”
Monica laid her knife on the counter and gave me a searching look. “All she thinks about is boys. Nan, she’s not even fourteen years old.”
“I know, I know,” I said, thinking about Chrissy and Dani and the struggles they’d gone through, growing up without a dad. “She’s hurting. She just wants to be loved.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Monica started peeling garlic. “Even when he was alive, Vince didn’t pay attention to her. He only had eyes for Alex—first-born son and all. I know it hurts. I went through the same thing with my mom and my big brother. Compared to Stevie, I was chopped liver. But Vince was really a jerk, way worse than my mom. To him, the only women worth noticing were bimbos.”
“You are not a bimbo,” I corrected.
“No, but I could cook. I was useful,” she said, bitterly. “This whole boy-crazy bimbo thing is just Zoe trying to find the daddy love she missed. She can’t see it, but I do. I’m not trying to keep her from having fun or being popular. I just want her to understand that she’s worth something! I want her to know that her value as a person isn’t based on how many acne-scarred Romeos try to shove their hand down her blouse.”
She tossed the garlic into the bowl with the tomato and some herbs, then added salt, pepper, and olive oil.
“The least worst thing that’ll happen to her is getting her heart broken,” Monica said, her frustration evident in the ferocious way she stirred the tomatoes. “Every time I try to explain that, she yells something at me, then I yell something back, and we’re off to the races.
“Why do I do that? I’m supposed to be the adult.”
She stopped stirring, put down the spoon, and looked at me. Her gaze was flat and her eyes seemed darker, as if the spark inside them had been suddenly extinguished.
“I’m going to end up ruining these kids, aren’t I?”
“No!” I insisted. “No, you’re not. Why would you even think that? Monica, raising children isn’t easy. Especially teenagers.”
“You raised seven and they all turned out okay.”
“Every mother makes mistakes.”
Monica tasted the tomato mixture, tossed in some salt, and sighed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get off on a tangent. I was supposed to help brainstorm ways to make money for Rainbow Gate, not gripe about my rotten step-kids, right? So. Let’s talk fund-raising. But, first—do you want a piece of tiramisu? It’s fabulous. You’ve got to try it.”
With my mouth full of spaghetti, I waved a finger in the air, trying to signal that I was too full for dessert. But Monica had turned her back and was heading toward the restaurant’s big walk-in cooler. While she was inside, the phone rang. Ben, Monica’s sous-chef, answered it, then called out, “Chef? It’s for you.”
“Take a message.”
“She said she’s gotta talk to you now. Said it’s important.”
Monica exited the cooler. “This better not be some yahoo trying to sell me a new espresso machine,” she said, scowling at Ben. He handed her the phone.
“Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Romano.”
Monica turned to face the wall, conversing in a voice that was too soft for me to hear. I looked at my half-eaten plate of pasta. I was so full, stuffed. But the sauce was so delicious . . .
As I took another bite, Monica hung up the phone and started barking orders to her staff.
“Ben? I’ve got to go out. You’ll have to take over for a while. Finish stuffing the manicotti, then check the minestrone—it was too bland yesterday. Pound some more chicken breasts for the scaloppine—let’s try to get ahead of the game for once, all right? Oh, and order some more oregano, will you? We’re nearly out.
“Angela? Did you finish setting the tables? Don’t think so; I don’t see any water glasses. And update the specials board. We’ve got manicotti and salad for $11.99 today. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. So try not to burn the place down while I’m gone, will you?”
She unbuttoned her white chef coat and hung it up on a hook. “Sorry, Nan. I’ve got to run.”
“What’s happened? Who called?”
“The school. They’re going to expel Alex.”
“You’re kidding! For what?”
Monica snatched her car keys from the counter and grabbed her purse.
“Selling drugs.”
Monica left. I took the long way home, worrying about her, worrying about Alex, driving slowly beneath a dozen different overpasses and bridges, scanning the ravaged faces of this city’s lost and discarded, searching for the one who was familiar to me, the face I would never stop loving.